


here at the end of all things

by aelins



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Italian Mafia, Major Character Injury, Rhysand is the youngest of the brothers but he inherits the business, Sad with a Happy Ending, THERE'S A LOT OF ANGST OK?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins
Summary: A concept: they are two broken halves of the same heart.A Mafia feysand AU
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. blare the war horns

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first day of nano!

Rhysand Night was the bastard born son of a man who had no conscious, and even fewer morals. He’d inherited his Italian’s father’s penchant for doing his wet work himself and none of his Iraqi mother’s softness.

Rhysand Night was a lot of things, a thief, a murderer, a con, and occasionally a drunk—but he was not in the habit of treating his women with disrespect.

“Hey, how are you all doing?” He’s got a group of newbies, who’d _chosen_ this life. He didn’t know what kind of desperation ran through their veins but it must’ve been some wild, unholy thing.

There are nods, and smiles from the girls. Rhysand’s number one rule was to never employ a girl who flinched at her true self and the girl crying in the back, the most beautiful girl he’d dreamed of so many nights now, was crying.

A couple of the girls tittered. Normally he would’ve told her to get a glass of water, and walk it off, but he found himself crooking his finger at her. She pouted and stalked up to him. He patted his knee.

She sat on his knee, the warmth of her body seeping into his tired bones. She was barely dressed, just a short dress, no bra no panties. Rhysand knew tonight, at least one of his girls would be hurt, whenever rival gangs got together—bad things happened. It was the invariable truth. Feyre was the outlier, she was his favorite whore. She’d taught these girls the skills they would need to survive. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why she was so upset.

He gave them a little pep talk, a short one, and then dismissed the other girls, he slid Feyre’s too thin body off his knee. She began walking away, her tears already dry.

But Rhysand catches up quickly. “What was that about?”

“ _He’s_ going to be there. You know I’ll do anything and anyone but him.” She snaps, her temper getting the better of her.

Rhysand puts two hands in the air, “Hey don’t shoot the messenger.”

Feyre tilts her head and shoves him—hard.

Rhysand stumbles back—surprised by her strength, “You know people have died for less than that, right?”

She’s walking away from him again, and he can’t stand it. “If you’re going to kill me, _Rhysand,_ you’re going to have to do it now, because I don’t know how much of me will be left if I have to spread my legs for _Tamlin Spring_ one more time.”

Rhysand approaches Feyre, and slowly, seductively pushes her against the wall, and then he dips his head so his lips just brush the shell of her ear, “Sweetheart, you know I wish it could just be you and me.”

A shudder passes over her almost entirely exposed body, all the soft parts of her are bared and on display for him. She can feel his mounting desire and would like nothing more than to let him have a freebee right here and right now. “Do I still have a choice—about any of it?” Feyre asks, swallowing hard.

Rhysand recoils, and his first instinct is to say she will always have choices with him. But that’s not what comes out.

“No, go make Tamlin feel like half the man he thinks he is.” He drops his arm, which had been holding her arms above her head, and stalks away.

He has never been one for self-pity. Tamlin always requested Feyre though, and Rhysand knew it was because she was a fun fuck. And what was he supposed to say? He wasn’t supposed to give a shit about these girls. He wasn’t supposed to give a shit about any of it—except the money, and his brothers.

Speaking of brothers, Azriel appears nigh silent, and waves a hand around, gesturing wildly at the empty space in the room. “What is the matter with you, brother?”

Rhysand snarls and decides it’s time to start drinking. He ushers Azriel into the office in the brothel. He pours them some wine, Rhysand had never been big on the hard stuff, and usually saved it for personal tragedies—and there were plenty of those.

“Az…” Rhysand gulps the wine and then rubs his temples as if the incoming headache is already nestling itself inside his skull.

“Don’t _Az_ , me. You know she’s in love with you and you with her. It’s entirely unfair that you put her through this.” Azriel sounds distressed at the mere mention of Feyre doing something like what she was tasked with tonight. “Rhys,” Azriel’s voice has softened, and he scrubs a hand through his deep brown hair, his wicked hazel eyes give Rhysand a shrewd look. “You’re trying to push her away.”

Rhysand rolls his shoulders, and his jaw ticks, “So what if I am?”

Azriel makes a noise of disgust, “Our mother would be ashamed, she taught us to embrace love, and I’m sure she’s rolling in her grave as she watches down on you push away Feyre and put her in danger.”

Rhysand looks ashamed, Azriel was his eldest, wisest brother, “I can’t deny Tamlin’s request for my best hooker. You _know_ Feyre provides a crucial service tonight.”

Azriel’s face crumples, “She’s in danger and you put her there and if anything happens to my _friend_ —you will not like the consequences.”

Rhysand shakes his head as if trying to dispel any thoughts of her being hurt. “She can handle getting his cellphone and planting the fake.”

Azriel snorted, and for the first time in years, his brother raised his voice to Rhysand, “She is an eighteen-year-old girl caught up in a world of murder, sex, and drugs. She has no idea what she’s doing and if she does then she’s lost to everyone! Do you know what it was like when father handed over this business to you? I was afraid for your—“

“Not. Another. Word.” Rhysand says with a deadly calm he doesn’t feel.

Rhysand stands and leans on the desk, gritting his teeth and nearly taking Azriel’s head off, “She knew what this business was when she signed up. She knew we could either make or break her—and that whatever beautiful spirit she had would be crushed—“

“You’re an incomprehensible monster—“

“Stop interrupting me, Azriel. I am the president of the Italian Mafia, terror to law enforcement agencies all over the world. If you think I will stop my reign of terror at my eldst brother’s behest you are barking up the wrong tree.”

Azriel, in a fit of anger, and sheer strength of will, punches Rhysand on the lip, causing it to bust open and spray blood.

Azriel takes the picture of their father from Rhysand’s desk and crushes it beneath his Gucci loafers. Rhysand is about to reach over the table, and grab Azriel—truly doing damage to his favorite brother—but a servant knocks on the door, and Azriel and Rhysand both know the walls have ears here.

Rhysand straightens and kicks the picture of their father under the desk. _Where he belongs_. He could almost hear Azriel thinking it.

“What can we do for you?” Rhysand crosses his arms across his chest and tries to look menacing.

Azriel scoffs and departs, “I’ll be watching you brother.”

Rhysand waves him off, and the servant looks quite shaken, “Mr. Spring requested your presence.”

Rhysand nods, “Show him to me,” the boy marches dutifully toward to ballroom of the brothel.This was the nicest brothel in New York, and was often frequented by some very influential faces. Tamlin is holding Feyre’s hand at the bottom of the stairs, and she looks like she’d like nothing better than to kill Tamlin with her bare hands. Feyre’s hand is red from the brute strength in Tamlin’s fingers.

“Feyre, darling, why don’t you go get a drink?” Rhysand says politely dismissing her. He’d assumed Tamlin wanted to talk business.

“How much?” Tamlin asks, a crooked, dangerous grin playing across his features.

Rhysand quirks a brow, “For peace? I thought that was still on the table?”

“No, for the girl. She is my price for peace,” And Rhysand nearly laughs himself hoarse.

“You would sacrifice the trade routes for…” and he really looks at Feyre, and Feyre’s slate grey gaze pierces his soul, seeing through to all the ugly, unloved parts of him, and the good parts he’d let wither and die.

And at that moment he knows there will never be another who sees him like this, sees through to his affection starved, needy soul. Rhysand crooks his finger, at Feyre.

The ballroom had gone still and silent, gradually, one person after another stop to look at the exchange between the two kingpins. All eyes were now on them, and it would be a nightmare to slow the deadly momentum of this night. Everything had gone wrong up to this point, what was inciting a war on top of his best girl hating him?

And Feyre rips her hand out of Tamlin’s grip, and when he grabs for her, Feyre slaps him, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“You stupid bitch!” Tamlin roars, the beast of his rage roaring to the surface.

Rhysand gives Tamlin a look that clearly reads, _touch her and you die._

Tamlin straightens, re-buttoning his suit jacket. “You had no intention of negotiating with me, did you? You want war!”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I didn’t have any intention of making love to you if that’s what you’re asking, all that _make love not war_ nonsense. I’ll see you at dawn.”

_I’ll see you at dawn._

They were going to war, and as Feyre lets Rhysand haul her away, and up the long flights of stairs to the offices and toward safety—she thinks this might be the end of whatever understanding her and Rhysand had.

There would be nowhere she was safe from Tamlin’s men, they’d hunt her to the ends of the world. She’d known Tamlin had it bad for her but never knew how badly he had it—and what he’d do to bring her to his side.

When they are finally alone, he stops touching her and gives her a weary smile.

“I’m going to war for you,”

“Fuck you.” Feyre spits.

Rhysand quirks a perfectly quaffed eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

He’s never thought Feyre had much of a temper, but apparently, he was wrong, “I said, _fuck you_ and the horse you rode in on! I don’t want my life to be upended! I just wanted—“ She clams up, and he knows it’s the last time he’ll be getting any straight answers from her. “I just wanted to be safe, and you’ve been so good at keeping me safe, Rhys.”

“He was going to fuck you and impregnate you, and never make an honest woman out of you. You would’ve been used up and tossed aside, likely murdered when he was done with you.”

“I d-don’t care.”

Rhysand’s shock plays plainly across his face. “Yes, you do!”

“Shut the fuck up! I won’t let you throw your life and your livelihood away for me!”

“Who said it was for you, Feyre darling?” Every moment of cruelty has led up to this moment. She knows he’s being sharp with her to protect his own heart, and it’s not a stab wound that she can be protected from, just a million tiny paper cuts.

A chill sweeps over the room, “I can’t be here,” Feyre whispers to herself and goes to her dressing room and begins throwing things haphazardly into a bag.

Rhysand doesn’t know if it would be better to stop her or let her go. “Feyre, don’t this.”

She stops packing, “I don’t know what happened when your father—or whoever is responsible for your birth—decided that _you_ should get the business. I know there was a woman, and you used to be so kind. Now whatever Amrantha—the fucking bitch—did to you has ruined you for me.” Tears were tracking down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry—“

“No, it’s too late for that.” And then she sweeps out of the brothel’s dressing rooms and runs into the streets.

Rhysand locks himself in his office, and when the door clicks shut he falls to his knees in grief. The conflict in him was tearing his life apart. He wept, curled in the fetal position, for _four hours_. And when Azriel found him he was so tired, he let his eldest brother do what he did best.

“I’m going after her,” Azriel says.

“No,” Rhysand moans softly as if speaking hurt, “She wants to be left alone.”

“No. You’re a complete idiot, Rhys. She wanted you to chase after her and prove that you give a shit about her.”

Rhysand has never felt sorrow as deep as a gunshot wound.

But oh, does he ever now.


	2. the war brought you home to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tragedy reunites Feyre and Rhysand, and a plan is hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS GRAPHIC OPIATE USE IN THIS CHAPTER. (not recreational--medical)

Beron Vanserra appears from the shadows—as all slimy things do. If Cassian was surprised to see his adversary he didn’t show it. He merely takes the Glock from the waistband of his pants and levels it on Beron. Even though Beron was significantly older than Cassian’s twenty-nine years, Beron has one, singular purpose for this visit—make it so Rhysand’s last, best lieutenant would never walk again.

The silenced shots sound far too loud—even muffled gunshots still sounded like a firearm going off. This wasn’t a great part of town, and the brothel he’d gone to visit was off the beaten track.

As Cassian slumps to his knees, his gun falling out of his hands, and a sharp cry of pain ringing through his bones, his skull, and his back—he knows he’s in deep shit.

A few of the girls are looking at him, and he rasps, “A little help?” his face is contorted in pain, his voice strained.

A girl who he can’t quite place comes tearing out of the red-painted door to the brothel, and kneels at his side, “Cassian, _Cas_ , can you hear me? It’s Feyre.”

“Feyre?” The world is turning black, the desolate pain sinking into his being.

And then Cassian loses consciousness.

Feyre swears a blue streak and ushers some of the girls over to help her get him sitting on the front stoop steps to the brothel.

Each and every one of these girls knew her—respected her, maybe even feared her a bit. After all, she’d proven her strength countless times. Her resilience was unmatched—especially by them.

“Get some towels,” she points at a brunette who looks scared, and then points at another girl—probably just her age and says. “You’re going to learn how to tie a tourniquet today ok?”

The other girl nods and Feyre presses her advantage, “Does anyone here have some morphine?”

Everyone is very silent. Feyre scoffs, “Please do not _lie to me_. If you come forward and save this man from death you’ll be given double whatever your earnings are for a fortnight.”

There’s a sudden commotion and three or four of the girls present begin heading back inside and grabbing the things they’d need.

Once the girls are out of earshot for a moment, Feyre dials Azriel’s number and bites the inside of her cheek so hard it bleeds. “Az,” she says in a small voice, “Cassian and I need you.”

There’s the sound of squealing tires on the other end of the phone, and all Azriel says is — “Is he alive?”

Feyre’s puzzled for a moment, “Yeah I think he’ll make it but he passed out because of the pain, so I’m working on getting him some morphine and I’m going to tourniquet his thighs.”

“Fuck,” Azriel swears loudly.

“How did you know what had happened before I called you?” Feyre was always suspicious, never wanting to trust unless she had due reason to.

“Beron just sent me a message—bragging of course.”

She can hear the engine of Azriel’s Bugatti humming as he undoubtedly whips in and around traffic.

“I gotta go,” Feyre says as she accepts a vial of medical-grade morphine from one of the girls, along with the clean needle.

“Take care of him, ok? And call Maja, she can do damage control before I can get to the hospital and pay some people for their time.”

“Always,” Feyre affirms. She hated this life. She hated every waking moment she lied and fought and acted no better than Rhysand.

Maybe he had a reason for acting the way he did though, maybe there was more than cruelty in his bones.

*~*~*

Maja tsk’s at the sight of Cassian’s knees, and his bleary eyes. “You did everything perfectly.” Maja, the elderly doctor says. “He would’ve gone into shock without the morphine, good call.”

Feyre nods, and though she’s been quiet and calm throughout the whole thing, she feels tears prick her eyes as she watches EMS haul Cassian’s massive frame away.

Feyre had some basic medical training, she’d wanted to be a paramedic herself but life had happened, and then she’d become a whore. _Life happened_. As in her father had broken at the death of their mother and had quite his affluent job to drink and mope on street corners.

She’d never forgiven her mother for all that had happened. And sometimes her bitterness was all she had to hold onto.

Feyre starts walking away, and toward the hospital. She wasn’t _technically_ Cassian’s family—at least not legally. But she was as good as in every other sense of the word.

She wondered vaguely what Rhysand would do about this first act of aggression that had been planned so easily. Their people needed protection. She sighs, feeling weary, and lights a clove cigarette on her way to the hospital. It was about a mile there, and she needed the time to think besides. Rhysand would undoubtedly show up and beg her forgiveness and list all the reasons they needed to stick together.

Except she didn’t know if sticking together would do any good right now.

When she arrives at the hospital she asks about Cassian, and the orderly gives her the directions to the room he’ll be staying in when he’s out of surgery.

So she waits.

And waits.

The surgery ends up taking six hours, and after only about twenty minutes, Azriel shows up and sweeps her into his arms. Her best friend, the man who’d taught her how to defend herself—how to hold a gun, and how to survive in the face of adversity.

They were platonic soulmates.

“It’s good to see you,” Azriel says finally, holding her out at arm's length and inspecting her ruffled appearance. “I was so worried.”

Feyre nods, and looks away, “Could you keep Rhysand away?”

“I can _try_. You know Rhys, he goes wherever he pleases whenever he pleases.”

Feyre shakes her head and brushes her fingers against Azriel’s temple. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have stopped it.”

Azriel sighs, “What were you doing there anyway? Wasn’t he at an outskirts brothel?” Azriel shakes his head disbelievingly. “I can’t believe he was getting his dick wet at noon.”

Feyre shrugs, “If he’d been anywhere else he might be dead.”

Azriel hugs her close, and they sit down and eventually get coffee and wait for Cassian to come out of surgery and the recovery room.

They end up getting food, it’s well past 6 pm when they realize Cassian will be _starved_ when he wakes up. Cassian was _always_ hungry.

Cassian gets wheeled into the room not long after they get back from the cafeteria. “Hey,” Feyre says softly. “How are you feeling?”

Cassian’s words are garbled by anesthesia, “Horrid.”

Feyre kisses Cassian’s cool brow. “I just need to make a phone call, can you boys behave yourselves?”

Azriel and Cassian are already chatting idly.

Feyre slips into the hallway and dial’s Tamlin Spring’s number.

“Spring speaking.”

“Hey.”

There’s a low, answering growl from the other end of the phone line, “I started a war to bring you home.”

“Home?” Feyre sighs, “Maybe, yes, maybe there was a time where I cared for you. But I am done with the lies and your huge ego. I just want to be alone, Tamlin.”

“No one wants to be alone.”

Feyre scoffs, “Then you truly do not understand me.” And maybe it wasn’t true that she wanted to be alone, but it had been so long since she’d had peace and quiet it didn’t matter. She was in love with someone, and she was sure they didn’t love her back.

She hangs up and puts Tamlin out of her mind.

*~*~*

Rhysand makes a dramatic appearance that night with flowers, balloons, and some treats for them all. He’d brought a double dirty chai for Feyre, a pumpkin scone for Cassian and a large black coffee for Azriel.

Rhysand pulls her out into the hall, and she clings to her Starbucks for dear life. This was not going to be a pleasant interaction.

He paces up and down the hall, in front of her and she is silent. He looks like a beautiful caged animal. Sad and lonely, yet deadly when provoked.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhysand begins.

“Don’t you _Feyre, darling_ me.” She says shrewdly.

Rhysand makes a noise of exasperation, “I’m really thankful for all you did.”

“But?” There was always a but with Rhysand.

He rolls his shoulders as if preparing for a great dive into deep water. “I didn’t know what to do last night.”

Feyre shrugs, “Neither did I. That’s usually why people run away. But I thought you’d follow if I’m honest. Maybe that’s me being romantic, but I genuinely thought you’d understand that I wanted you to…” She barks a laugh. Feyre is truly having a hard time gripping how guarded Rhysand is. Even though she’d known him for a while. She changes the subject, “Why won’t you speak to anyone about what happened two years ago—when you disappeared and came back a monster?”

Rhysand looks visibly uncomfortable, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But she could see the fear that had gripped him with an iron fist.

“You know what I think?” Feyre proposes, “I think Amarantha wasn’t really the good girl you make her out to be. We all know she was a bitch--and never treated you with decency.”

“Kind of how Tamlin treated you, hmm?”

She’s shocked by his knowledge of her secret relationship with Tamlin, “It’s none of your business, Rhys.”

Rhysand looks away from her, “I’ll tell you someday if we’re not dead by then.”

Bitterness spreads like poison through Feyre’s veins. “I’m not going to get martyred—“ she kicks his shin, “and neither are you.”

Rhysand rubs his shin. “Maybe all this pain, all the things between you and I have a point, maybe we’re not just suffering _for the sake of suffering_.”

Feyre had been thinking the same thing, and it strikes her as odd that he’d say something so romantic about them. Her tone softens, “Rhysand you know I’m—“ she clenches her fist, “You don’t need to wonder, because what’s between us is holy. You’re the only one I’ll ever want. But I’m not ready to play house with a mobster.”

Rhysand’s face falls, and he reaches for her hand, “Together, I want to get through this war together.”

She’s not sure what has changed between them, but she suspects nearly losing Cassian had shaken Rhys more than he’d ever admit.

Azriel opens the door to the hospital room and looks appraisingly at the two of them.

“I hope you two kissed and made up,” Azriel’s tone carried a note of reproach.

Rhysand held Feyre’s hand, “I think we did.”

_Together, they would go through this—together._

*~*~*

**Later that night.**

“Nesta,” Rhysand says in way of greeting.

“Rhys,” Nesta Archeron croons.

“It’s time,” is all Rhysand says.

“I thought it might be, when did you want to do the _unofficial agreement_?”

“As soon a possible.”

“I hope you’re ready for this, bombs don’t discriminate between sinners and saints. If you want my explosives team to raid Tamlin’s manor—it’ll cost more than some spare change.”

“I’ll sell my soul to the devil to get him out of this world.”

Nesta’s laugh is high, and cold and cruel, “As you wish, old friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so Nesta is NOT the villain of this story, but she is a morally grey character from here on out!

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me [on the bird app](https://www.twitter.com/sanktaleks) / [tumblr](https://feyesand.tumblr.com)


End file.
